


Gifted

by legendofthesevenstars



Category: Tenkuu no Escaflowne | The Vision of Escaflowne
Genre: Fatherhood, Found Family, Gen, Mentors, Swords, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21710860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendofthesevenstars/pseuds/legendofthesevenstars
Summary: In his bandit days, Allen is drawn to the prestige of a sword crafted by a legendary smith. The vanity he gains from wielding the stolen blade draws him to the master swordsman who will become his mentor, Balgus. When Allen returns to Asturia and Van inherits the sword, Balgus helps Van and Allen through their struggles, remembering his own arrogance and vulnerability as a young swordsman.Two students. One sword. The mentor who brings it all together, and the troubles he hid underneath his stoic surface.
Relationships: Allen Schezar & Balgus Ganesha, Van Fanel & Balgus Ganesha
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Gifted

**Author's Note:**

> CW: discussion of suicide/suicidal thoughts.
> 
> This concept is based on an obscure little bit of lore from one of the artbooks. Apparently, the sword Allen wields when he first meets Balgus (as seen in the flashback scene from episode 15) is a rare sword that is still owned by Balgus. I wanted to write about what happened to that sword, and explore Balgus' character and his relationships with his students.

Allen had always considered it fate that the sword had ended up in his hands. The bandit gang of which he was a member had stopped in a quarry town near the Fanelian border, the home of a famous blacksmith. It was rumored that he made swords in forges powered not by wood or even coal, but by Drag-Energists. According to the legend, not just anyone could wield a sword tempered in a dragon’s flame; the sword had to want _you_ to wield it. Regardless of whether all that was true, a gang of orphaned children, even if they pooled the little money they had, couldn’t afford a sword like that, much less attempt to steal something that expensive. Except for Allen, who felt that such a blade was destined for him, none of the boys were willing to give it a try.

In the dead of night, he picked the lock on the side entrance, snuck in, and, lying on the table, just finished, was a sword that was the perfect size for him. Unlike all those large, heavy swords normally made in the Drag-Energist forge that were meant for grown, muscular men, this sword was short enough for him to wield. It was unwieldy, yet light; stiff, yet flexible. When he picked it up, it fit perfectly in his hands, and when he slipped it in his sword belt, he felt like it belonged by his side. There was an aura to it that he could not explain, as if being in the same room with that sword alone could grant him immense power. He had had a brief guilty thought, as he still often did when he stole, that perhaps this blade was meant for a young warrior more worthy than he, yet who could be worthier than the boy who could defeat all his comrades easily in a fight?

So of course he was distressed when Master Balgus told him to put down the real sword and train with a pathetic bundle of sticks instead. He had only been around children his own age for the past year and a half and had somewhat forgotten the proper way to speak to his elders, unless he was trying to charm something out of them. But trying to steal anything from this old man was not only stupid, but impossible.

“Why do I have to use this anyway?” It was just after daybreak, and Allen was following Balgus outside to the yard of the hut in the woods. “Don’t you know how good that sword is? I had it custom-made for me. Don’t you see how well it fits me? And why would I use a pretend sword when you get to use a real one, huh?”

Instead of responding, Balgus squared up in front of him. Allen tensed and lunged at his master. Balgus blocked his every strike. Even when he tried a dirty move—slipping between his arms to go for his ribs—Balgus found a way to block that, too. Allen stepped back, grinding his teeth in frustration.

“Do you think you will improve as a swordsman if you are distracted by the sword you use?” Balgus glared down at him through that single eye. “Your sword is a mere tool. A beginner can fight with the best sword on Gaea and still lose to an expert who fights with the worst sword. That aside, remember your humility. A true master wastes no time boasting about his skill. Instead, he proves it!”

“I didn’t say anything about my skill,” Allen protested, but had no time to rebut, faced by a sudden charge.

All he could do was brace the wooden sword against the opposing metal one with a two-handed grip. Balgus was not putting his whole body into the strike as Allen had to do at his size (especially with his awkward, lanky legs), but to Allen, it felt like more power than he had ever experienced. It would be too easy to be knocked to the ground—he was already digging his heels into the dirt—except that Balgus remained stock still and did not push any further into the strike because he did not have to. Any resistance on Allen’s part would have done nothing to move him.

The swords unlocked, and Balgus stood upright again.

“Can I please use my sword now?” Allen asked.

“No.”

“This is so unfair! You get a choice of a dozen swords and I get a _wooden stick_?! Whatever you say about the sword not mattering, you clearly don’t believe in it yourself.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Hypocrite.”

“What did you just call me?”

“Nothing.”

“Repeat it so I can hear, please.”

“I didn’t call you anything!”

“Do not _lie_ to me!”

“Fine! I called you a hypocrite!”

“Thank you for your honesty, young man. In the future, you will avoid calling me names. We must treat each other with respect, and this includes expressing our grievances in mature ways.

“Now, before you disparage me, consider the reasons why a samurai might want to own multiple swords. Rather than placing all his stock in a single blade, as you have done?”

Allen crossed his arms tightly. “’Cause if something happens to one sword then you have another.”

“Speak clearly and do not mumble.”

Allen repeated the sentence, adding a couple indiscriminate emphases and rolling his eyes.

“Correct. Why else?”

“You don’t start worshipping one sword and thinking it’s the best sword ever.” Even if it _is_.

“Very well. And?”

“Different swords suit different purposes better.”

“One more.”

“You might need to dual wield?”

“Well done. I must amend my earlier statement. Your sword may be just a tool, but some tools suit different purposes, as you have astutely pointed out. This sword”—he gestured to Allen’s wooden sword—“is built for training. That is why you use this sword and not your own for such a purpose. Now do you understand?”

“Whatever.” He understood. Who was he to doubt Master Balgus, the only person he’d lost to? Well, the only person he’d _officially_ lost to. Balgus had informed him most swordsmen would likely hold back in a fight against a thirteen-year-old boy. Meaning there were many losses which he had thought were wins. And much more to learn.

“What was that?”

“Yes, Master, understood.”

—

It really was an excellent sword. Balgus inspected it while he sat at the table inside the hut one evening. The mark on the hilt signified that it was from Ivaldin’s forge, where the swords were tempered in Drag-Energist-powered flames. Balgus had one of Ivaldin’s swords, a hefty blade originally made for a Melef, so he recognized the mark.

Ivaldin was renowned as a Melef sword craftsman, but about ten years ago, he’d begun producing normal swords as well. To see one made for a child or a man of smaller stature was rare indeed. He doubted it had been custom-made for the boy; a simple bandit owning that much money was unheard-of. More likely, it had been intended for another warrior and he had stolen it.

Allen had been engrossed in his reading, but once he heard the quiet unsheathing, he set the book on the floor. He lay down on his stomach and set his chin in his hands, grinning.

“It’s a nice sword, right, Master? It was forged in a fire powered by Drag-Energists. It’s one of a kind. Made ’specially for Allen Crusade Schezar, that is, me.”

“It is a quality sword, but I see no indication that this is an Asturian sword other than the maker. Tell me the truth—was this sword made for you?”

Allen’s face fell. “Why should I have to prove that?”

“Without a family crest or your initials, it doesn’t seem very personal, hm?”

A custom sword didn’t always have such markers, but he wanted to know how a thirteen-year-old had come to possess such a sword. The workshop couldn’t be _that_ easy to steal from. Maybe he’d snuck in during he day and hid until the shop closed. Had there been a break-in, the boy likely would not be sitting in front of him.

Allen scoffed. “Okay, fine, you got me. I stole it.” He sat up and drew his legs to his body, setting his right elbow on his knee. “It was just finished when I broke in that night. I know I’m not supposed to have it, but I just wanted a nice sword! Is that so wrong?”

“Had you only waited a few weeks, I could have had one made for you once you began training under me.”

Allen frowned. “You’re just teasing me.”

“That was not in jest.” The boy knew nothing of how eager any smith would be to make a sword for one of the three master swordsmen. Not that he _should_ know—Balgus was trying to diminish, not exacerbate, the boy’s already-inflated ego.

Allen’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

Balgus nodded, setting the sword on the table and lifting the mug of tea to his lips. Allen was practically beaming, and a far-off look clouded his eyes as if he were already envisioning the swords he could have custom-made. The faintest smile cracked Balgus’ stoicism, going unnoticed by Allen, who was deep in his daydream.

“Although,” Balgus started, and Allen snapped out of his fantasy, “this one is quite suited to you even if it was not intended for you.” He had a feeling the sword should stay with the boy until he outgrew it.

Allen brightened, not with empty pride, but with more genuine confidence. “You really think so?”

“Yes. I can forgive that you stole, because it seems this sword was destined for you.”

—

Like any teenager, Allen didn’t remain at the same height for long. A few months before his fourteenth birthday, his legs started to ache, and he was about a head taller before the new moon. His face had begun to lose some of its childish roundness, muscles growing in his upper body. The special sword, the dragon sword, was now too short for him, but Balgus refused to have a new sword made until he had stopped growing for a while.

Instead, he brought secondhand swords from his home in the capital of Fanelia. They were nice swords; the previous owner had been delicate with them. Allen quickly got used to the feeling of the new swords in his hands. He was also beginning to accustom himself to his master’s style, and developing one of his own. He prioritized nimble movement and deft strikes, but the sheer power and pressure behind Balgus’ strikes could still throw him off. Not to mention Balgus always knew the perfect way to counter even the newest quirks of Allen’s style. It was frustrating, yet invigorating, knowing that he always had room to improve.

It was a shame to see his beloved sword retired to the small rack that leaned against the wall of the hut. Whenever Allen was feeling wistful, he would lie on his back and lift the dragon sword above his head, staring at it. There were many things he wished he could tell his master, not just all the wrongs and misdeeds he’d done before they’d met, but about his family, about Mother and Celena, even Father. But he couldn’t even think about telling Balgus about any of that, not when he could barely think about those things himself. Not that the samurai ever talked about himself either.

Balgus was both familiar and enigmatic. Allen had lived with him for almost a year, and knew him well: the motivators he fell back on, and the glint in his eye when he was about to say something truly inspirational; his bad back that he tried to hide, and his questionable hearing; how he took his tea black, and how he’d convinced Allen that it was the only way to drink one’s tea; the tunes he whistled while their fingers were in the dirt of the garden, and how he harmonized with the Asturian nursery songs that Allen hummed; and the perfect way he peeled apples, so that the peel was shed in one beautiful, complete ribbon. And yet, Allen felt that he didn’t know his master at all: he had never spoken about any family; his country was Fanelia, yet he had never shown Allen where he lived when he was not training in the woods; and, most frustrating of all, he concealed any trace of emotion. He certainly wasn’t cold. But he didn’t consistently offer sympathy when Allen was feeling down. He really was a puzzle.

How could Allen possibly get the man to speak about himself? It wasn’t as if it would be unprofessional to ask. Balgus probably thought it was more unprofessional for himself, to talk. Allen mulled over various possibilities in his head, but they all seemed inadequate or offensive. _Can’t ask how he got his scars; might bring back bad memories. Can’t ask what happened to his parents; he’s ancient, and they probably died a long time ago. Can’t ask if he has siblings, a wife, or children; he would never tell me that, and it seems unlikely that he does. Pointless to ask about swordfighting techniques or books; that’s what we already talk about._ Eventually, he narrowed it down to two choices: _what’s your favorite sword you own_ , and _how did you decide you wanted to be a swordsman_? He just had to wait for a good time to ask.

After the new moon came and went, a snowstorm trapped them inside for a couple days. Cold air snuck through the gaps in the hut’s construction; Allen cocooned himself in blankets from the closet and sat at the table most of the day reading. After dinner, he was halfway through the first chapter of a new book when he remembered his questions and quickly shut it.

“I’ve been thinking about my old sword recently,” he started, watching Balgus to gauge if he was paying attention.

Balgus looked up from his book, setting it on the short table in front of them.

“I know now that it was foolishness and pride more than the sword itself that made me feel like I couldn’t improve. I believed that I was already the best swordsman in all of Asturia, and I was wrong. But I feel like you were right that it was destined for me. It was a marvelous sword, wasn’t it? Have you ever had a sword that made you feel undefeatable?”

Allen thought he glimpsed a brief smirk on Balgus’ face. Then he got up from the table and went back to his room. Allen wondered if the sword he was going to bring back was one he would recognize. His supply of swords seemed infinite, like he had his own personal smith.

The beast he carried into the room made Allen’s jaw drop. It was as wide as Balgus himself, longer than he was tall, and, despite its size, Balgus held it with the same adroitness with which he wielded all other swords. When he unwrapped the ribbon covering it, an enormous stone-gray blade emerged. It must have been carved from an ancient slab older than Gaea itself. It must have been forged in a fire that Jeture Himself had breathed. Above all, it was intimidating. And breathtaking.

“You… you can _wield_ that?” he stuttered, standing up to get a better look at the monstrous blade.

“Before you ask to try your hand against it, it’s not made for such a purpose. I would easily bash your skull in, so I urge you to reconsider.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” He shook his head rapidly. “I wasn’t going to, not at all. Is it a Melef sword?”

“It is made for a Melef, but I have taken on even Guymelefs with this blade. I was a Melef pilot for a short time, but it seems that mechanical armor is just an impediment to me. I do far better when my own feet are touching the ground.” He paused for a moment, almost as if he were afraid of what was next, then continued, “That is my major weakness as a swordsman.”

Allen squinted. “Don’t be silly, Master; you don’t have any weaknesses.” With so much experience, and with all the time he devoted to training now, how could he possibly claim to have any weakness? “I mean, just look at the size of this thing.” He pointed to the edge of the massive sword, lying against the wooden floor of the hut. “How many men can even claim to be able to wield this thing in good conscience?”

Balgus met his eyes with that characteristic gleam. Allen straightened his spine, preparing for the speech.

“Like you, I erred under the impression that I was the most accomplished swordsman in all of Gaea, and that I was undefeatable. When I was young, I studied under the same master as the late King of Fanelia, who was then the Prince. I bested all my opponents easily, even the prince himself, and thought that I could not fall.”

Allen’s heart was beating in his throat. He’d finally gotten Balgus to talk about himself! Hopefully he would answer Allen’s other question, too, without Allen having to ask.

“I was only a few years older than you when war came. The King’s parents and my parents were killed. I took control of a Melef after its pilot’s demise. I had never piloted a Melef before, and I had little idea what I was doing. I continued to try and fend off the enemy, even when the prince pleaded me to get out and run.”

His hand went to his left eye, the missing one covered by a deep scar. “I lost track of my enemy and was surprised when the visor of my Melef was slashed open, and the sword cut through and took out this eye.”

Allen gasped. He hadn’t expected Balgus to ever say anything about the origin of any of his scars. Or tell so personal a story.

“I realized something, and I climbed out of the Melef and ran away with the Prince, the remainder of his court, and the surviving civilians.”

“They didn’t pursue you?”

“Perhaps my assailants gave up when they saw that a sixteen-year-old was at the helm.

“But on to my realization. You should never let your own pride convince you that staying is better than running. Sometimes, it is best to cut your losses and run. Particularly when the life of royalty is in danger.”

_But Master, isn’t that cowardice?_ Allen might have asked him, though he understood all too well that it wasn’t. It was hard to imagine Balgus as a young man, harder to imagine him weak or afraid. But Balgus and the prince had been scared and vulnerable, and the enemy had preyed upon their fear and inexperience. There was no cowardice in self-preservation, especially after losing one’s parents.

“You think of me as an opponent who is impossible to defeat,” Balgus continued, “but you are still inexperienced. If I could go back to that day with the experience I have now, I would realize how little of a challenge the fight was. But, if I were still as afraid as I had been back then, it may still have been difficult. It is impossible to ignore the role that circumstances, emotions, and experience play in any battle. Remember that.”

Allen let the words sink in for a moment. Then, timidly, he ventured, “Is that why you don’t feel comfortable piloting a Melef?”

Hurt flashed across Balgus’ face, and Allen feared that he would be scolded for asking a question that was too personal. But instead, he lifted the blade in his left hand, his right hand still on the hilt, and said, “And why I feel undefeatable when I wield this sword.”

—

Allen’s fourteenth year came and went. His teenage attitude had almost entirely faded, and by the time he was fifteen he was no longer back-talking, which was quite pleasant. His edge had been quite a contrast to the elder Fanel, who had always been calm and almost angelic, even in his early teens; but that lack of any angry spark in Folken, aside from the grief over his father’s early death, had made him a relatively poor swordsman compared to Allen.

An opening in the Knights Caeli would serve as an opportunity for the boy to further his training and return to the maritime homeland he had vainly sought in the Fanelian mountains. Balgus saw his student off, and promised to write frequently, and promised that he wouldn’t forget about the “dragon sword,” _and keep it safe for your next student to use, and keep all the books until I have the opportunity to come back and visit, which I’m definitely going to do, provided I’m stationed close to the border—that is, if I do make it as a Knight Caeli—and please keep growing a garden, maybe plant some flowers and I can come back and help with those_ … Before he could make any more requests, Balgus grabbed the tearful-yet-excited teenager by the shoulders, turned him around, and commanded him to _GO_. He was not surprised when the notice came a few days later that the latest appointment to the Caelean order was Allen Crusade Schezar.

Balgus returned to his own homeland, bringing the books and the swords from the hut as Allen had requested, leaving only the practice sword there because it was too worn. He was as overjoyed to see Van and Merle as they were to see him. Van dove into Allen’s old books with enthusiasm, but he was still too young to use the swords. As a substitute, Balgus threw himself into training against the other samurai-generals. But he didn’t have much time for training; now that the court was occupied with diplomacy with Zaibach and other countries, he had been given full responsibility of looking after Van and Merle.

Even now that they were older—ten and eight—the two still had boundless energy. Van always wanted to practice flying; Merle had to be taught how to read and write in both Gaean _and_ Fanelian; and after the “work,” of course they wanted to _play_ , and after racing them down and back up the halls of the castle and playing seemingly endless games of hide-and-seek, his joints felt raw and all he wanted to do was sleep. But before that, they always wanted a bedtime story. He would not tell them they were too old for that because that had always been his favorite thing as a child, too.

He was reading to Van one evening, after Merle had been put to bed, from _Tales of the Brave Cesarian Knights_ , and Van looked as if he wanted to ask something. Balgus paused at a good stopping point, set the book down, and asked what was on his mind.

“One day, am I going to be as brave and selfless as the Cesarian Knights?”

“I have no doubt that you will. The blood of the royal family and of the Draconians flows in you, and this combination will make you a formidable warrior.”

“But what about Folken? Even he couldn’t stand up to a dragon. He was too scared.” Van was silent for a moment. Then he continued, “Folken didn’t really like wielding a sword. He didn’t like fighting. What if I don’t like fighting and swords either?”

Balgus hesitated. Van did not often mention his future position. To an outside observer, he showed remarkably little awareness of his station as prince, such as when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand at dinner, stuck his tongue out at Merle, or neglected to say “please” and “thank you.” Court members constantly reminded Van that he was the prince and that the prince should not act in such unbecoming ways. But Van just wanted to be Van. It was dangerous for the country, since he was the only living royal, and if he did not place more weight on his position in childhood, he would not grasp it fully in the future.

The part of Balgus that was devoted to Fanelia and its well-being, which was a very strong and prominent part of him, and had comprised almost all of his purpose in life until recently, wanted to encourage Van to act more like a prince and show greater consciousness of the meaning of his title, like his predecessor. But the part of Balgus that was devoted to Van and his well-being wanted to encourage Van to be strong and show courage, like his father, and become a powerful warrior. The part that was devoted to Fanelia almost always won. But he had never considered letting both parts of him speak.

“Once,” he began, “there was a young swordsman who believed he was the greatest on Gaea. He wielded a special sword forged in a fire powered by Drag-Energists, a spectacular sword that seemed to fit perfectly in his hands. This sword was the perfect weight, give, and length for him. The swordsman encountered an opponent many years his senior, and was defeated in a flash. Floored by his opponent’s skill, the young swordsman asked the elder to be his tutor.”

“And what happened? Did he become good enough to beat the old man?”

“The swordsman was frustrated for precisely that reason. How could he defeat a man who seemed impenetrable? It was not only that he had no weaknesses. The swordsman also felt as if he knew nothing about his tutor, because the elder never spoke of himself. The younger man would not speak of himself either, for he was haunted by his horrific past and avoided it by living in the present. What he did not realize was that, for a long time, the same fear had consumed his master. His master had hid his pain behind arrogance and had fancied himself undefeatable, but realized that arrogance leads only to foolish choices in the midst of war.

“The young man was shocked to learn of the parallels in their lives. He, too, had lost his parents, and acted in irrational and rash ways. But now he learned that weakness was no flaw, and that baseless confidence is a detriment. He still enjoyed fighting, and so did his master. But too much enjoyment can harm a swordsman, in the same way that too much fear can hurt him.”

Van had absorbed the tale with eagerness, sitting up in bed and meeting Balgus’ eye. Now he had become pensive, his head bowed slightly. Perhaps he’d told Van the “tale” too early, and it would be more appropriate when he had begun training with a sword. But he could always use it as a reminder if the prince forgot his humility.

“What happened to the swordsman? The young one?” Van asked.

“He became successful as a knight in his homeland.”

“And was he happy?”

The question gave him pause. That Allen had not sent any letters as of late signified that he was likely busy training or otherwise occupied with his current post, but he was unsure if his student was “happy.”

“Certainly he was happy to be accepted as a knight and have the chance to show off everything the elder swordsman taught him.”

Van frowned. “But his past…”

“He was able to become a skilled swordsman in spite of his past. He harnessed that pain and molded it into strength. He turned a front of brash arrogance into practiced confidence. Lord Folken was unable to do so. He was neither confident nor able to use his own weaknesses to his advantage. He was haunted by sorrow and fear. If he had had more time to work through his grief, he might have been a better swordsman, and he might have slain the dragon.”

Without considering what _really_ would be the best for Fanelia—and for Folken—the court had decided to move the Rite of Succession back five years. Balgus knew now that fifteen was too vulnerable an age to assume the throne, but at the time the court had pressured him into accepting it, with only a few years to try and teach Folken the lessons he had been sheltered from. It had been difficult for the two of them and Varie, all still grieving, and Van, who was very young and had barely known his father. Balgus considered Folken’s disappearance one of his major failures in life, one he had tried to amend by giving Allen, and now Van, the strength and wisdom he wished he could have passed on to Folken.

“Balgus?”

He met Van’s eyes, coming back to reality. “Yes?”

“So… Folken was still too sad from Papa dying to become the King?”

“There’s not much you can do well when you’re sad and afraid. It is difficult to concentrate, and to value your own potential. Healing takes time. Folken needed more time, for many things.”

He leaned over and patted Van on the head. “At your age, you need not worry about becoming a swordsman just yet. But you must not forget the story of the swordsman, nor the shame your brother brought upon the royal family. You will work to correct his wrong and bring honor back to Fanelia.”

“I know,” Van said, in the same tone he used when the court members admonished him.

“Enjoy this time while you still can.” He stood up, bidding Van good night, and returned to his room. He looked at the rack of swords on the wall, his eyes stopping on Allen’s sword, and his heart unexpectedly felt light. Allen was happy, at least for now; Balgus felt certain of it, even if it was only temporary. That was enough consolation for him to go ahead and focus on molding Van into Fanelia’s next king.

—

Just before he turned twelve, Van began training as a swordsman, with Balgus as his master. With all the buildup to swordsmanship and how fun Balgus made it look, he felt like he might enjoy it more. But it wasn’t as fun as he’d anticipated, especially since he was still on the receiving end of endless lectures about reclaiming Fanelia’s name and bringing back honor to the Fanel family. He was growing bored of that talk and, more than ever, felt Folken and Mother’s absence. Balgus could not be a replacement for Mother, and Merle definitely was not a replacement for Folken. But he appreciated having them around well enough, even if they got on his nerves—Balgus with the constant lectures and stories with morals, and Merle playing tricks on him and stealing things and butting into their training when she wasn’t supposed to.

Balgus had even given him the best sword in his armory, a legendary sword forged in flames powered by Drag-Energists. That didn’t sound very impressive to Van, especially considering the trip they’d taken recently to a dragon graveyard full of Drag-Energists. But, as Balgus explained, Drag-Energists meant more power, since Energists powered Melefs and Guymelefs. That was why the legendary sword was considered such a good blade. Well, it _was_ the perfect length, weight, and flexibility for him. But Balgus was an unyielding opponent, which was frustrating. He liked it better when the other samurai in the court let him win against them. Balgus had probably never gone easy on anyone.

One afternoon, presumably having had enough of Van’s griping, Balgus led him to the building that housed the samurai-generals’ Melefs. Van had only seen Melefs in books, and maybe once when he was younger. Was this Balgus’ idea of a cure for boredom? He should have taken him over the border to Asturia instead (he still hadn’t been there), or let him take the afternoon off to go for a flight.

“So why are we here?” Van grumbled, kicking absently at the floor with his feet.

“You’re bored of sword combat, so we will try something different.”

“Huh? You mean we’re going to fight in _those_ things?” He pointed to the hulking green Melefs. “I don’t know anything about piloting a Melef!”

“If you know how to walk, you know how to pilot. It’s simple. Go on,” he gestured to the machines, “you get first pick.”

Van marveled at the new opportunity. This was much more interesting than his suggestion that he try to practice his forms while he was airborne. He rushed to a Melef and Balgus showed him how to work the mechanism to open its cockpit. Placing his arms in the sockets and legs in the stirrups, he stood up unevenly, wobbling a little. He took a few cautious steps, watching through the visor for the other Melefs surrounding him. He felt a colossal feeling, like he was a giant and nothing could stop him.

“Now, reach over your shoulder. There should be a weapon there.”

Van reached over his shoulder and blindly felt around until he discovered the handle of a sword. He lifted it and, with the Melef’s help, didn’t even notice how heavy it was.

“Before you go swinging that around, give me the chance to choose my own Melef,” Balgus warned him.

Van watched through the visor as Balgus got into a Melef and withdrew his own sword from its sheath. They walked away from the other Melefs onto the open floor, polished wood and clearly made for training. Did Balgus ever come here to train?

Van squared up to face his master.

“Fight!”

Van lowered the sword with a heavy, clumsy swing, taken aback by the weight and range of the massive blade. Balgus countered, pushing back against his strike and knocking Van back a couple steps so that he almost stumbled. He lunged forward and aimed for the Melef’s shoulder, but that strike was blocked, and after the swords unlocked, was countered by a blow to his shoulder. Glass cracked and the Melef’s left shoulder limped a little. Without thinking, Van retaliated, aiming for the head of Balgus’ Melef—

“STOP!”

The sheer volume of Balgus’ shout, even filtered through the Melef’s visor, made him falter, and he withdrew his sword with a weak crunch of metal, stepping back. The opposing Melef knelt on the ground, and Balgus jumped out, his arms folded, brow furrowed deeply.

Van sat down and climbed out of the cockpit. “What did I do wrong?”

“You do not _ever_ aim for the pilot,” Balgus said firmly. “That is a dirty and disrespectful move!”

He was shocked by the tremor in Balgus’ voice. Not because he was showing emotion, but because the emotion he was showing was not fury or disappointment. Instead, it seemed to be… sadness? Or just a strong emotion in general? If Balgus were capable of being moved to tears, it was probably what his voice would sound like if he were on the verge of tears. Van was so taken aback that he couldn’t even manage an apology. Why would Balgus react so strongly to Van’s mistake? Was it that poor of a mistake? He hadn’t meant to _kill_ his mentor. He never meant to kill and didn’t think he would ever have it in him.

“Why did I even bring him here, when I still cannot…” Balgus was mumbling under his breath as he made for the door. Van followed with the same slow footsteps he’d taken when he was inside the Melef. He hoped that they would eventually come back and pilot them again, but he didn’t want to make Balgus angry, or sad, or whatever it was that he was feeling.

Balgus let him go back to his room early. He sat alone in his room and reread _Tales of the Brave Cesarian Knights_ , but it was hard to focus on the text when he was so distracted by Balgus’ sudden, unexpected show of weakness. He wanted to know what had made him so angry about attacking the head of the Melef, yet he couldn’t ask. He did not want to distress or inconvenience his mentor, not because he feared the consequences but rather because he was concerned about him.

Merle knocked on the door, then came in without asking a moment later. She sat on her haunches on the edge of the bed and stared for a moment, then asked, “What’s eating you?”

“Same as always, what do you think?” He closed his book and set it on his nightstand. “Responsibility. Duty. Becoming king of Fanelia.”

“Doesn’t look like it to me.” She crawled up the side of the bed and sidled up to him. She had this annoying habit now of clinging to him. It was probably because Balgus rarely hugged or even touched them, so she was taking advantage of their closeness. Not that he minded. It was comforting, when she didn’t sneak up on him and hug him out of nowhere.

“Balgus got upset today.” He sighed, then looked down at her.

She met his eyes. “What happened?”

He drew her into a tight hug, and she squeaked in surprise, but then relaxed into his embrace. He wasn’t sure where it came from, but he started to cry.

“What did he do? What did he say?” she asked, slinging an arm over his shoulder, her forehead still pressed in his chest.

“Stupid old man,” Van managed between sobs. “Don’t know why I care so much about what he thinks… ’bout what any of them think…”

“You’re not yourself today.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and looked out the window at the blue sky, watching the clouds passing over the rooves of Fanelia.

—

Allen did not stay happy for long.

Before the letter’s arrival, Balgus felt a slight disturbance in the fabric of Gaea. Even this far away, he could sense Allen’s despair. He had been in the dojo for the past three days, deep in an intense training regimen with Van, when the letter arrived. A single sheet, it was crumpled, stained, and difficult to make out, notwithstanding that it was written in very unpracticed Fanelian, and would lapse into Asturian at times, so that the two languages created an odd mixture. Balgus knew enough Asturian to wade through the short, messy letter.

_Dear Master:_

_Don’t know how long I have left. Hoping you get this before I’m gone. Someone I care about very much has died and I do not know what to do. I have been wading through life’s swamp for the past three years. Knowing that I am without her and that she was with another was painful enough, but now I have received the news that she has just died in childbirth, and I feel at fault even if I am not. There was a second baby, I tell myself every day, a second baby that she could have stayed with and raised, but the child itself died, was a stillborn unlike_ [Here a large portion of the letter was scratched out, to the point that the ink had torn a hole in the paper.] _I am sincerely depressed and feel that I have no purpose in life any longer. There is nothing that makes me happy and I no longer take enjoyment in swordplay. I suppose that this is goodbye to my old master since you are after all the only person_ [another portion scratched out] _who I still care about. I am stationed at the worst dump in Asturia, Fort Castelo, and there is no returning from such shame as I have inflicted on my country and my family name. I know you would tell me to make the best of the situation, but I do not know what to do. I am at a complete loss, and I do not know who else to ask. Please help me before I consider offing myself again._

Neither signed nor dated, the letter appeared to have been sent almost by accident. The messiness and the frank discussion of taking his own life was more than concerning. Fort Castelo was a few days’ journey, but he could not spare even that much time. Not only was he busy with Van, the samurai-generals were holding a council in two days to receive dignitaries from Asturia, and on top of that, Merle had just caught the stomach flu from one of her playmates in town, and Balgus was sitting in her room reading that letter while she lay on her side with a trash bin beside the bed. He turned the letter over and noticed more writing on the back.

_I don’t need much. If you could just send me the dragon sword or_ The Fated Order _._

Van was in the middle of a second read-through of _The Fated Order_ , of which Balgus only had one copy, and it had been out of print since he was middle-aged. And Van was still using the sword. He had not yet hit his growth spurt, and though the sword was a little short, it still fit its purpose well.

At the end of the page, he noticed

_or anything. Please just let me know you’re still alive_

_I don’t really want to die, I want to live, but I can’t imagine what I’d do if I kept living_

Gaea was firm in its agreement with Allen. Though the young man had hit a low point, it was not his time yet. Balgus sighed, retrieved a different book from the shelf and used it as a writing surface to dash out a quick reply, glancing occasionally at Merle through his peripheral vision.

The letter had been written in lonely desperation, reaching out to the only person he’d had contact with (other than his unnamed beloved, who Balgus suspected was the Duchess of Freid, formerly Princess Marlene Aston, who had recently died in childbirth). It was still Red; Allen’s birthday, if Balgus remembered correctly, was three months away, in Blue. He could send Allen something on his birthday every year; that at least he would have time for, in between taking care of a bratty preteen and an insolent teenager.

He was unsure how Merle and Van had turned out the way they had, even with the upbringing he’d given them. Perhaps he’d been too lax with Merle because the future of Fanelia did not rest on her shoulders; but for Van’s arrogance, there seemed little explanation. Van was not like that on the inside; he was gentle and emotional like Folken, but he seemed to think that cultivating a hard exterior would betray others from looking deeper to see his true self. It was unlike Allen and his secretiveness, and unlike Folken and his obviousness—it was sort of an odd blend of both. But Balgus recognized that behind every brash front was a desire to be loved. In every young swordsman he saw himself reflected; an arrogant boy hiding his hurt under a false exterior.

He was relieved when a response came from Allen two weeks later. His considerations had, sadly, been in earnest, but that he was doing better, socializing with the soldiers at his post, and learning to make the best of what he had. Subsequent letters from Allen were far more cheerful in tone, though not a false happiness. Balgus could still tell that he was suffering deep down, and lamented that he could not help his former student any more than in writing.

In their exchange of letters, Allen would often mention the things he missed from Fanelia, like working in the garden, and making spiced tea, or going into the capital on market day and buying books, and Balgus watched the legendary sword in Van’s hands and was struck by a similar nostalgia he had never before felt for his time with Allen. When Van grew up, would he miss him, too? He could not imagine training any more students than he had. The pride that came with their success was accompanied with pain. He now understood what married couples meant when they spoke of their “empty nests.”

Two weeks before Allen turned 21, he had just sent the birthday letter when he was struck by an odd premonition. He had a horrible feeling about Fanelia, and about Fort Castelo. It felt like a shockwave in his being, but he did not understand what, exactly, was going to happen. He sought answers in the next few days, trying to think of something that could possibly put both Allen, and Van and Merle, in danger. Fanelia was most important to protect, but knowing that Allen was at Castelo was distressing.

He could not tell Allen to run away, for that would be an abandonment of one’s post. He could not tell Allen to be on watch, for that was too vague, much like the feelings Gaea bestowed upon him. That aside, Allen would not understand, for he did not have the power to commune with Gaea in the way that Balgus did, and did not seem like the type to be easily convinced of such things.

The best he could do was show his concern by showing that he remembered.

He sent the Ivaldin sword to Fort Castelo the next day. Four months later, he perished.

—

Spring in the swamps of Castelo brought deathly humid nights, such that Allen often found it difficult to sleep even with the windows closed and no blankets on the bed. He couldn’t get to sleep tonight, rolling back and forth in bed. He had an uneasy feeling that something big was about to happen, eating at him like mosquitoes, but he was unsure where it was coming from.

Then a sudden pain pierced his core, right between his ribs, as if he were being impaled.

He gasped and sat bolt upright, arching over in agony, biting his lip firmly until he almost drew blood trying to withhold his scream. A shudder passed over him, then he felt a sudden lightness. He tried to catch his breath and think of who could have died. Without Mother and Marlene, and no knowledge of whether Celena (or Father) was alive or not, that meant… Balgus?

_Balgus is dead._ He clutched the chest of his nightshirt with one hand, wadding the hem of it in the sweaty palm of the other. The room suddenly felt stuffy, constricting. He got out of bed, got into uniform quickly, and took Natal with him. He would take the boat out on the lake and try to get his mind off of the distress he felt…

The day Hitomi prophesied that Zaibach was going to attack, and he’d seen the maddened look in Dilandau’s eyes, he retreated to his room again, looking at the slight disarray with folded arms—his nightshirt still crumpled on the bed; hair ribbons, papers, and ink thrown into one pile on the tiny desk; and a half-finished bottle of wine on the nightstand. If Castelo was really going to burn, did that mean none of this would survive? It wasn’t as if he could take every little thing. If the furniture, clothes, and useless papers burned, then they burned. There were other, more important papers and objects, things that had belonged to Mother, Father, Celena, and Marlene, and to him. He walked over to the small sword rack and pulled the dragon sword off.

Holding it in his adult hands, no longer teenage ones, memories rushed over him. He had been lost, without a purpose, before he met the man, the man who had molded him into the swordsman and the person he was today. He had been his salvation. A lifetime wasn’t enough to repay the debts he held to Balgus. Somehow, stealing that stupid sword had been one of the smartest decisions he’d ever made in his life. It had led to his arrogance and his belief that he could defeat anybody. And that had all led to this.

With the pieces of his past cradled in his arms, he walked toward the _Crusade_ and toward the next adventure, with Van and Hitomi in tow.

—

A year had passed since the war ended. According to Van’s most recent letter, Fanelia, though still undergoing reconstruction, was doing well enough that he could finally take time to visit in Blue. The timing was nearly perfect; the day after he planned to arrive was Allen’s birthday. Celena was stable, too; she had been for the past month. Though she said she didn’t want to receive any company, Allen had a feeling she and Merle would get along well.

They greeted each other with a handshake and a hug. Van had trimmed his hair, a little shorter so that his bangs weren’t constantly falling in his face, and he looked a little taller than the last time Allen had seen him. He invited him and Merle in to sit at the table and take tea. Celena came down, greeted Van and Merle, and she and Merle went outside for a walk, leaving them to talk to each other.

“The rebuilding is almost done?” Allen asked, sitting forward in his chair, leaning on his elbows.

“Yeah, we’re getting there. It almost feels like it used to.”

“Almost?”

“It’s not quite the same. I’m sure your crew must feel the same way about Fort Castelo. Did you find any others?”

Allen shook his head sadly. He’d returned to Castelo for a week, leaving Celena in Eries’ care. There weren’t any more men than had initially come there to rebuild it. Gaddes especially was downtrodden that they hadn’t found anyone, and Allen told him it was all right, that he was glad at least the eight of them had survived the attack.

“I meant to tell you in my last letter,” Van began, “but I felt it was better to say it face-to-face.”

Allen sat back in his chair, straightening his spine.

“Balgus has a proper grave now. It’s just a marker, not a monument or anything like that, but I felt it was important that we honored him.”

Allen nodded. “I’m glad to hear it, and I look forward to seeing it when I next come to Fanelia. Actually, I have something to show you. I never got the chance, and I’m wondering if you would recognize it.”

He got up from the table and dashed upstairs to get the dragon sword, then walked back downstairs, setting it on the table between their teacups. “Does this look familiar?”

Van’s eyes widened. “How did you get that?”

“So you do recognize it. Did you use it?”

Van nodded. “Yes. It’s a legendary sword, forged in a Drag-Energist fire. It used to belong to a young swordsman.”

“Young swordsman, huh?” Allen smiled.

“Balgus told me this story when I was younger. It was about an older swordsman who encountered a young swordsman. The young swordsman was arrogant and prideful because he owned this sword, and thought he was undefeatable. He was quickly defeated by the older swordsman, and he asked the old man to… train him…”

He broke off as his eyes lit up in realization. “It was _you_.”

Allen nodded. “Yes. This sword used to belong to me. I was that swordsman he talked about. And he was the old man.”

“How did I never realize…” Van said to himself, looking at the sword between them. “The young swordsman’s past, his becoming a knight, and the story he told you that changed your mind about things.”

“The story?”

“There was a story he told the young swordsman about his past.”

“Oh, that story. I remember now. Fanelia was attacked when Balgus was sixteen. His parents and the current prince’s parents were killed. He got inside a Melef and kept fighting even though the current prince, your father, discouraged him to. He lost track of who he was fighting and was struck across the face”—he made the motion across his left eye, just as Balgus had done—“taking out his eye.”

Van gasped. “Then… that was why he freaked out back then!”

“When was that?”

“We were training in Melefs, and I went for the head of the Melef, and he yelled at me, telling me it was a despicable move, and he had this weird tremor in his voice like he was going to cry. It messed me up for days. I didn’t know what I had done wrong or what was going on with him. And we never trained in Melefs again after that. I always trained against the samurai-generals.”

“And he never told you why?”

“You know he wouldn’t have done that. He was so private. He had to have a reason to tell you about something that had happened to him. You must have gotten lucky.”

“I suppose so.” Allen looked at the sword that lay between them. “What did you think of this sword, anyway?”

Van shrugged. “If I’m being honest, it was just okay.”

Allen smirked. “Balgus would appreciate your honesty.”

Van smiled weakly, then lowered his head. “I just wish he would have told me more.”

“We can always tell each other what we remember. That way, we’ll have a more complete understanding of who he was.”

“It was strange. Sometimes, I really did want to understand. Other times, I felt like I never would.”

“I know what you mean,” Allen said. “He was a mystery.”


End file.
